Land Rites (Detective Ford), Andy Maslen [best way to read ebooks .txt] 📗

observed with my own, less insulted eyes, the petechiae are streaks, not the usual blossom shapes we would expect with asphyxia. And the poor man’s corneas are abraded. Something caused the internal pressure in the skull to rise dramatically, forcing out the eyeballs.’

Ford saw it. The damage to the ear. The blood clots. The rise in internal pressure. Someone had shot Tommy through the ear. Instead of exiting his skull, the bullet had ricocheted off the bone and stayed inside. He felt sure it was somewhere in the grotesque array of body parts before him.

‘I think he was shot,’ he said.

‘That’s a possibility. Let’s find out, shall we?’ George said. ‘Stryker saw, please, Pete.’

As she brought the whining power tool’s oscillating blade down on to the skull, releasing a wisp of foul-smelling smoke, Ford peered at the entry wound. He saw no stippling or powder burns, which ruled out anything up close like an execution-style murder.

He pictured himself as the shooter. I’m taking a long-range shot because I don’t want to risk being seen. I’m using a rifle. A good one, accurate. That means I’m a good shot. I’m confident I can kill Tommy from a distance.

Pete placed a shallow stainless-steel kidney bowl by the opened skull. George scooped out the brain tissue and deposited it in the bowl in a series of soft plops. She started probing with the scalpel and the tips of her fingers.

Ford watched, but his mind was elsewhere. The shooter probably had their own place. But if they shared a house, they’d have a workshop, basement or outbuilding where they could cut up a body without being disturbed. They owned at least one firearm, almost certainly a rifle. And they were a decent shot. He made a mental note to look at local gun clubs and their membership lists.

‘It’s not here,’ George said, pushing the kidney bowl away from her and wiping her smeared fingers on her apron. ‘But don’t despair. I once recovered a pistol round from a woman’s spleen. She, too, had been killed with a shot to the head.’

‘Best guess?’ Ford asked.

‘The torso. It could be lodged in the viscera, muscle tissue or even wedged between two bones.’

‘We’re going to leave you to it,’ Ford said. ‘Can you let me know as soon as you find it?’

‘Me too, please?’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll come and collect it. We can start running ballistics analysis on it. I’ll alert the lab.’

Later that morning, at the briefing in the sugar cube, Ford learned from Mick that forty-three people fitted the profile he’d drawn up for workers in the meat trade. All were based within five miles of Salisbury. All held either a Level 2 Certificate or Diploma in Professional Butchery, or had done an apprenticeship. That included retail, wholesale and abattoir staff. Of the forty-three, eleven either lived at home or in a shared flat, so he’d downgraded them for lack of somewhere private to do the cutting.

After the briefing, Ford checked his emails. George had sent hi-res photos of the properly cleaned-up tattoos. As he looked them over, he pictured another: a knotted heart of blue and yellow climbing ropes, ‘L4E’ below in a rugged typeface. Lou had come back from town one sunny Saturday afternoon and proudly showed him her cling-filmed left shoulder.

‘It’s for us!’ she’d said. ‘Roped together for eternity.’

Oh, Lou. If only you knew.

CHAPTER NINE

The raft of documents piled up on Ford’s desk clogged his brain. He couldn’t get a handle on the investigation from behind a desk. He stood abruptly, knocking his policy book against his half-full mug.

He saved the mug but the resulting jerk slopped cold coffee over an untidy sheaf of canvass reports. Figuring they’d dry if he just spread them out, he left his office, took a right and walked along the corridor to the stairwell. Five minutes later he pushed through the door to Forensics.

Hannah was at her desk, peering at a website.

‘Hi, got a minute?’ he asked as he approached.

She snatched at her mouse and clicked to close the browser. Then she swivelled to face him. ‘Henry! Hi. You’re here. In Forensics. Why?’

He observed the pallor of her cheeks, which were normally a healthy pink. The way her eyes kept darting to her monitor.

‘Are you all right? You seem on edge.’

Beyond her left shoulder he could see an open document. Nothing beyond the four-word title was legible at this distance. His stomach lurched.

Rock-climbing risk assessment.

What the hell? Was she investigating the accident? He’d opened up to her a while back about Lou dying at Pen-y-Holt sea stack. Now it looked as though, in her obsessive way, she’d got her teeth into it as another puzzle to pick away at. Had he made a mistake? Hannah was a woman who, having thought of something to say, never stopped to think whether she should. A woman developing a friendship with Sam. This was unwelcome news.

‘I’m fine,’ Hannah said. ‘Just, you know . . .’ She tugged on her long plait of blonde hair. ‘Work!’ She rolled her eyes, clicking her mouse to close the document.

She’d managed a simulation of professional boredom combined with overwork. A bad simulation.

‘Fancy a trip?’ he asked her, filing his discovery away for now.

‘Where to?’

‘The site of the body dump. I can’t get a feel for the murder cooped up in here.’

‘Isn’t Jools or one of the others free?’

That was odd. Hannah never turned down requests like this one. Since her first day, she’d enjoyed and even volunteered to take on additional duties that fell way beyond the remit of a CSI. Even the deputy chief.

‘They’re all busy. I could go on my own if you’re in the middle of something?’ Like sticking your nose in where it’s definitely not wanted.

She shook her head. Now she did offer a smile. Genuine, too.

‘I’ll come. Help ya woik de angles,’ she croaked in a cod New York accent Ford suspected nobody had used since the 1940s. Was she trying to